She sits angled away from me, her head down. She doesn't speak.
"I thought-" She cuts me off, waving me away with her hand. "I know." she whispers. "I know what you thought. It's what everyone thought. But I couldn't stop." I have no words. I was proud of her, so proud for overcoming this, for taking control of her own life again. But I was wrong. I let out a long sigh and lean back. "Why?"
"You know why. I want to be skinny." I lift my head, stare her straight in the eyes. "You are skinny. You're gorgeous. Why can't you see that?" Her eyes, an electric blue, stare back. She blinks quickly, fighting back tears, and shakes her head. "I wish I were you. If I were, I'd carry a mirror around everywhere. You're so pretty" She forces a sad smile.
This shocks me. I quickly shake my head, "No. I'm all messed up on the inside." I stare back at her. We're opposites, my dark curls juxtaposing her straight blonde, her light blue eyes boring into my deep brown, and my chubby face studying her slender one.
She lowers her head, and pushes a piece of hair behind her ear. She raises her eyebrows in question and opens her mouth, ask if to speak, but stops herself. I know what she was going to ask, and instinctively I wrap my arms around myself, pressing close against my chest, hidden. I shake my head no, answering her unasked question. I have won my own battle, for now.
Later, I am at home, and her words echo through my mind. Suddenly, I am grasping, reaching. For reasons I don't understand, I shove food in my mouth. Without thinking, I eat. Ice cream appears, and I shovel it into my mouth. I realize I'm crying. I stop. I feel fat, bloated.
I push my finger into my stomach, and watch as the soft fat forms a dimple under it. I think of her, how dainty, how small, and I cry as I realize that she always sees this. She always feels fat. Blinded by the media's definition of beauty, night after night, she'll look at herself, and never feel good enough. So she cannot stop. Bulimia has won her battle.
I cry freely, for her, for me, for everyone with their own secret battle that they must fight. Eventually, the tears slow, and I wipe my eyes. I stand up and clean myself off. We might never be good enough, but we must never give up the fight.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A World on Fire
Outside the window, the sky is white.
The sky is perfect.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
It forms the perfect background against the trees. Emerald green, they blend together, like slender fingers reaching from the ground. There is one different. On the far right, it screams with color, flaming red and orange. Fire. In time, the others will catch its flame, burning as brightly as it does now. Frozen in time, it's on the edge. One flame. A row of green. Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
I met with the high school counselor for the first time today. My stomach dropped, and I hesitated outside her door. Yet again I swallowed down countless words, things I could never share. I paste on a smile and rehearse answers in my head. Things to make her nod her head, to make her not worry, to keep up the facade of the happy student.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
We began talking about basics. Simple things, grades, schoolwork. She asked me what I wanted to do after high school. I froze. The look on her face stunned me. She understood. She saw right through me. There was something different about her, and she challenged me to test her. To tell the truth. So I did. I choked out "musical theater". Her face hardened, out of habit, perhaps. After all, its so ambitious, so untouchable, and her job is to set realistic goals. Suddenly, the hardness melted. She looked curious, and nodded at me to continue.
It screams with color, flaming red and orange.
A dam broke then, and I sputtered out something about the high unemployment rates of actors and actresses. Her expression was unchanged, and I swelled slightly. "I can do it. I know I can. I'll be the one that makes it. I'll work hard at it, I swear. I belong onstage, I know it..." I trail off, ashamed, and wait for her to stop me. But she doesn't. "You will." Two words. That's it.
Frozen in time, it's on the edge.
I look up at her, and this time, it’s my face that asks to continue. “You will,” she repeats, “You speak with such passion, and you’re poised and well spoken. You’re going to succeed. I can tell.” I can tell that she’s confused by this, she’s making a promise that’s easily broken, but the doubt is soon gone. She is sure. And suddenly, so am I. I will. I wait now for my opening night, for the flames and excitement that will decide my future. I can sense something big approaching.
Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
The sky is perfect.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
It forms the perfect background against the trees. Emerald green, they blend together, like slender fingers reaching from the ground. There is one different. On the far right, it screams with color, flaming red and orange. Fire. In time, the others will catch its flame, burning as brightly as it does now. Frozen in time, it's on the edge. One flame. A row of green. Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
I met with the high school counselor for the first time today. My stomach dropped, and I hesitated outside her door. Yet again I swallowed down countless words, things I could never share. I paste on a smile and rehearse answers in my head. Things to make her nod her head, to make her not worry, to keep up the facade of the happy student.
A perfect white, washed out by clouds, flawless and pure.
We began talking about basics. Simple things, grades, schoolwork. She asked me what I wanted to do after high school. I froze. The look on her face stunned me. She understood. She saw right through me. There was something different about her, and she challenged me to test her. To tell the truth. So I did. I choked out "musical theater". Her face hardened, out of habit, perhaps. After all, its so ambitious, so untouchable, and her job is to set realistic goals. Suddenly, the hardness melted. She looked curious, and nodded at me to continue.
It screams with color, flaming red and orange.
A dam broke then, and I sputtered out something about the high unemployment rates of actors and actresses. Her expression was unchanged, and I swelled slightly. "I can do it. I know I can. I'll be the one that makes it. I'll work hard at it, I swear. I belong onstage, I know it..." I trail off, ashamed, and wait for her to stop me. But she doesn't. "You will." Two words. That's it.
Frozen in time, it's on the edge.
I look up at her, and this time, it’s my face that asks to continue. “You will,” she repeats, “You speak with such passion, and you’re poised and well spoken. You’re going to succeed. I can tell.” I can tell that she’s confused by this, she’s making a promise that’s easily broken, but the doubt is soon gone. She is sure. And suddenly, so am I. I will. I wait now for my opening night, for the flames and excitement that will decide my future. I can sense something big approaching.
Waiting for the world to burst into flames.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
C-
Dear Reader,
If we truly learn from our mistakes, then we should all have learned, correct?
Evidently not, as I make more mistakes then anyone, and yet I don't seem to learn anything from them. Our essays were graded today, dear reader. C-. She gave me a C-.
I do not lack in language, no, my "language is effective and rich". Nor is it mechanics, as I had "few errors" and "effective paragraphing". She told me, dear reader, that the structure of my writing was "sophisticated". But there, dear reader, is where the success ended.
My style lacked proper sense of audience or purpose. This, dear reader, explains why I am addressing you now, simply to bring out the irony of this accusation. My organization was "awkward" as well, and my focus "limited". However, dear reader, her most painful accusations were the following. I "lacked original ideas", had "little insight", and my voice was "awkward". Do you agree, dear reader?
Overall, I was simply "effective". Simply borderline. This, dear reader, is not good enough. I write to show, to tell, to teach, to learn. I write to free myself, to spill my soul all over the world. I write to capture thoughts, to put together pieces and find truth and meaning in life. Writing allows us to speak directly to a person's soul, which would not be possible otherwise. It's the reason for this blog, dear reader, and yet, I am only a C-.
In frustration, I ask you, how many more mistakes must I make before I can learn? How much more must I talk before I find my voice? How much more must I think before I can think for myself? How much more must I look before I can find profound insights? I ask you, reader, how much more? The answer, dear reader, does not exist. For people too often look at the world in the wrong way. Saying "I am learn from my mistakes" implies that there is a period for which I learn, and when that ends, I will know, and I will no longer make mistakes. This is not true. I will forever be learning, and even after I have learned, I will still be learning and making mistakes.
She is wrong, dear reader, for I already have a already learned some. My style may be weak, it may be cliche and awkward, but I am speaking to you now, am I not?
If we truly learn from our mistakes, then we should all have learned, correct?
Evidently not, as I make more mistakes then anyone, and yet I don't seem to learn anything from them. Our essays were graded today, dear reader. C-. She gave me a C-.
I do not lack in language, no, my "language is effective and rich". Nor is it mechanics, as I had "few errors" and "effective paragraphing". She told me, dear reader, that the structure of my writing was "sophisticated". But there, dear reader, is where the success ended.
My style lacked proper sense of audience or purpose. This, dear reader, explains why I am addressing you now, simply to bring out the irony of this accusation. My organization was "awkward" as well, and my focus "limited". However, dear reader, her most painful accusations were the following. I "lacked original ideas", had "little insight", and my voice was "awkward". Do you agree, dear reader?
Overall, I was simply "effective". Simply borderline. This, dear reader, is not good enough. I write to show, to tell, to teach, to learn. I write to free myself, to spill my soul all over the world. I write to capture thoughts, to put together pieces and find truth and meaning in life. Writing allows us to speak directly to a person's soul, which would not be possible otherwise. It's the reason for this blog, dear reader, and yet, I am only a C-.
In frustration, I ask you, how many more mistakes must I make before I can learn? How much more must I talk before I find my voice? How much more must I think before I can think for myself? How much more must I look before I can find profound insights? I ask you, reader, how much more? The answer, dear reader, does not exist. For people too often look at the world in the wrong way. Saying "I am learn from my mistakes" implies that there is a period for which I learn, and when that ends, I will know, and I will no longer make mistakes. This is not true. I will forever be learning, and even after I have learned, I will still be learning and making mistakes.
She is wrong, dear reader, for I already have a already learned some. My style may be weak, it may be cliche and awkward, but I am speaking to you now, am I not?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Social Paradox
Not quite a new beginning, but most certainly a new chapter, I turn the page to reveal yet another set of adventures, waiting to be discovered. There is drama, fights, romance, friendship and so much more in store. It seems, however, that the more I learn about myself, the less I seem to know.
Starting high school has been like taking one step forward and two steps back. I've found an entirely new world. The bell rings, and I drift out into the hallway. In seconds, it's flooded with people. The noise alone is overwhelming. Set to the beat of footsteps and an occasional drum beat (compliments of a student never found without drums around his neck), noises pervade the air. The temporary freedom between classes breathes life into the students, and suddenly, there is action, vigor, chaos. Gossip swirls, and the air is colored by different voices, different languages even. Lovers find one another, as though their connection is magnetic, hand in hand. We can quickly spot stereotypes and cliques. And that always leads me to ask... where do I fit?
Surely I'm not a jock, not one of the soccer players parading through the hallways on game days, proudly twisting this way and that to show off their jerseys, big white numbers clearly labeling them. They know who they are. Artist, Actress, Nerd, Prep, Popular, Druggie, none of them fit either. As a freshman, I shouldn't be so quick to label myself, but doesn't everyone get tired of just being invisible?
Starting high school has been like taking one step forward and two steps back. I've found an entirely new world. The bell rings, and I drift out into the hallway. In seconds, it's flooded with people. The noise alone is overwhelming. Set to the beat of footsteps and an occasional drum beat (compliments of a student never found without drums around his neck), noises pervade the air. The temporary freedom between classes breathes life into the students, and suddenly, there is action, vigor, chaos. Gossip swirls, and the air is colored by different voices, different languages even. Lovers find one another, as though their connection is magnetic, hand in hand. We can quickly spot stereotypes and cliques. And that always leads me to ask... where do I fit?
Surely I'm not a jock, not one of the soccer players parading through the hallways on game days, proudly twisting this way and that to show off their jerseys, big white numbers clearly labeling them. They know who they are. Artist, Actress, Nerd, Prep, Popular, Druggie, none of them fit either. As a freshman, I shouldn't be so quick to label myself, but doesn't everyone get tired of just being invisible?
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Fourth Thing
Biologists tell us that all animals have three primal drives. Food, shelter, and reproduction. Being animals, this is what we are driven to do. Find food. Find shelter. Reproduce.
I believe that there's something more, a fourth drive, that makes us uniquely human. Curiosity. Along with food, shelter, and family, we seek a fourth thing. Knowledge. Turtles don't ponder the meaning of existence. Cows don't look up at night and wonder what stars are. People do. But, as Thomas Edison once said, "We don't know a millionth of one percent about anything."
He was right. We know next to nothing. We don't know what life is. Or love. Or consciousness. Or electricity. Or gravity. Or even light. We barely understand what's in our own backyards, and there's so much more out there. Think about this. In the very small town where I live, the library has 74,144 books. Just books in print, mind you, I'm not counting books on tape, CDs, or anything else they have. Just books. 74,144. If you read one book a day, for one hundred years, you won't have even reached the halfway point. The entire world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don't know. Even the things we think we know, we are often wrong. Everything we know about history, we've learned in the past 200 years. Compared with the billions of years our planet has been around, we've barely existed. And for most of that time, we were mute and illiterate.
Now, we have language. We have culture. We have civilization. And where has it gotten us? Nowhere. We've already started to forget. To stain English with slang. To turn art into offensive doodles. To degrade music to the point of grunting and heavy beats.
I was told once by a friend of mine that we have no purpose on Earth but to learn. I disagreed, but I understand, for isn't that what we do? Learn from everything. Hold to that thirst for knowledge! There is so much more to learn, see, and do! Knowledge is never perfect. It always entails the possibility of mistake. Risk it. It's part of being human. Knowledge is in our destinies.
I believe that there's something more, a fourth drive, that makes us uniquely human. Curiosity. Along with food, shelter, and family, we seek a fourth thing. Knowledge. Turtles don't ponder the meaning of existence. Cows don't look up at night and wonder what stars are. People do. But, as Thomas Edison once said, "We don't know a millionth of one percent about anything."
He was right. We know next to nothing. We don't know what life is. Or love. Or consciousness. Or electricity. Or gravity. Or even light. We barely understand what's in our own backyards, and there's so much more out there. Think about this. In the very small town where I live, the library has 74,144 books. Just books in print, mind you, I'm not counting books on tape, CDs, or anything else they have. Just books. 74,144. If you read one book a day, for one hundred years, you won't have even reached the halfway point. The entire world, even the smallest parts of it, is filled with things you don't know. Even the things we think we know, we are often wrong. Everything we know about history, we've learned in the past 200 years. Compared with the billions of years our planet has been around, we've barely existed. And for most of that time, we were mute and illiterate.
Now, we have language. We have culture. We have civilization. And where has it gotten us? Nowhere. We've already started to forget. To stain English with slang. To turn art into offensive doodles. To degrade music to the point of grunting and heavy beats.
I was told once by a friend of mine that we have no purpose on Earth but to learn. I disagreed, but I understand, for isn't that what we do? Learn from everything. Hold to that thirst for knowledge! There is so much more to learn, see, and do! Knowledge is never perfect. It always entails the possibility of mistake. Risk it. It's part of being human. Knowledge is in our destinies.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
This is Ourselves
"It's the terror of knowing what this world is about, watching some good friends scream, 'Let me out!' "-Under Pressure ( Queen and David Bowie)
Everyday, we're put under an enormous amount of pressure. Judgments, expectations, limits, responsibilities, luck. For me, it's judgments. Why is it that society expects girls to have long hair? Yes, scientifically speaking, it's more attractive, (see Evolution of Attraction) but what law binds us to be attractive?
My new haircut is shorter then I've ever had it, barely covering my ears. My neck is shorn and the curls press close to my head. It roughly resembles a flapper from the 1920s. Vintage meets modern. It's perfectly me, but it's also terribly out of style. In today's world, short hair is childish, and with my old fashioned curls, I just can't wear it long. I'm forever "cute". I'm always going to look younger. I'll never fit society's definition of "beautiful".
For others, it's pressure in a different way. A close friend of mine just broke up with his girlfriend of two years. Pressure. Guilt, responsibilities, and heartbreak. My comfort is in vain. No matter how many times I tell him it simply wasn't meant or that it wasn't his fault, he doesn't listen. Quoting "Under Pressure" again... "Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. "
Pressure or not, he refuses to let me help. He's convinced that I don't understand. I want to roll up my sleeves and show him my own scars, figuratively, of course, but I cannot. And so comes back the curse of age. Yes, I'm younger, but I'm far from naive and immature. Just this once, I wish I was older and he was younger, and I could comfort him.
"This is our last dance. This is ourselves, under pressure."
Everyday, we're put under an enormous amount of pressure. Judgments, expectations, limits, responsibilities, luck. For me, it's judgments. Why is it that society expects girls to have long hair? Yes, scientifically speaking, it's more attractive, (see Evolution of Attraction) but what law binds us to be attractive?
My new haircut is shorter then I've ever had it, barely covering my ears. My neck is shorn and the curls press close to my head. It roughly resembles a flapper from the 1920s. Vintage meets modern. It's perfectly me, but it's also terribly out of style. In today's world, short hair is childish, and with my old fashioned curls, I just can't wear it long. I'm forever "cute". I'm always going to look younger. I'll never fit society's definition of "beautiful".
For others, it's pressure in a different way. A close friend of mine just broke up with his girlfriend of two years. Pressure. Guilt, responsibilities, and heartbreak. My comfort is in vain. No matter how many times I tell him it simply wasn't meant or that it wasn't his fault, he doesn't listen. Quoting "Under Pressure" again... "Love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night and love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves. "
Pressure or not, he refuses to let me help. He's convinced that I don't understand. I want to roll up my sleeves and show him my own scars, figuratively, of course, but I cannot. And so comes back the curse of age. Yes, I'm younger, but I'm far from naive and immature. Just this once, I wish I was older and he was younger, and I could comfort him.
"This is our last dance. This is ourselves, under pressure."
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Genesis
“The first step towards getting somewhere is to decide that you are not going to stay where you are.” -JP Morgan
Genesis. Noun. An origin, creation, or beginning.
With summer, I welcome in a new beginning. Finally, I return to endless rehearsals and memorization, backstage jokes, and late nights with sheet music and tea. Nothing has changed. Nothing but me. There are obvious changes, I've gained nearly an octave in range. I've also shed my image as the youngest, and hope to get a leading role. My biggest change is only mentally. This year has contained so much, from heartbreak, to death. New friendships and changing paths. And of course, new romance.
His name is Connor, and I truly believe the sun revolves solely around him. He might just be perfect. I've had a crush on him for months. Now that we're dating, every text makes me smile. I long for his next call, just to hear his voice again. Am I obsessed? Nope, just lost in a mix of excitement and ecstasy. For romance is just that. Full of excitement and happiness. Daring and bold.
So I welcome this new beginning. I welcome Les Miserables. I welcome rehearsals and over packed schedules. I welcome love. It's time to start. Good luck. Get ready. Get set. Go.
Genesis. Noun. An origin, creation, or beginning.
With summer, I welcome in a new beginning. Finally, I return to endless rehearsals and memorization, backstage jokes, and late nights with sheet music and tea. Nothing has changed. Nothing but me. There are obvious changes, I've gained nearly an octave in range. I've also shed my image as the youngest, and hope to get a leading role. My biggest change is only mentally. This year has contained so much, from heartbreak, to death. New friendships and changing paths. And of course, new romance.
His name is Connor, and I truly believe the sun revolves solely around him. He might just be perfect. I've had a crush on him for months. Now that we're dating, every text makes me smile. I long for his next call, just to hear his voice again. Am I obsessed? Nope, just lost in a mix of excitement and ecstasy. For romance is just that. Full of excitement and happiness. Daring and bold.
So I welcome this new beginning. I welcome Les Miserables. I welcome rehearsals and over packed schedules. I welcome love. It's time to start. Good luck. Get ready. Get set. Go.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Evolution of Attraction
“No object is so beautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly.” -Oscar Wilde
With Class Night, a graduation party, just around the corner, girls are continuously raising the bar. Manicures, pedicures, hairstyles, hair dye, shaving, plucking, the whole nine yards. What is it that drives us to fight for the perfect Barbie body? Everyday, we're surrounded by the images of “perfect bodies” displayed by the media, but strangely, that's not it. No, even in 15th- and 16th- century Italy, women were dying their hair blond. Studies have shown that even in Iran, where the voice of the media is limited, women are actually more concerned with their body image and want to lose more weight then women in America. Incredibly enough, there's logic behind the blond bombshell.
Age- This one's easy. Men tend to be attracted to younger women because younger women are usually healthier.
Hair- Once again, it's about health and youth. Blonde hair indicates youth. Shiny and lustrous hair indicates health, and therefore, longer hair indicates many years of health.
Waist- Women with a low waist-to-hip ratio are more fertile than other women. They have an easier time conceiving a child and do so at earlier ages because they have larger amounts of reproductive hormones.
Breasts- Until recently, "bigger is better" didn't make any sense, seeing as size doesnt interfere with a womans ablility to lactate, but anthropologist Frank Marlowe suggests that because of larger breasts sagging with age, it's easier to judge age with large breasts.
Eyes- The pupil dilates when exposed to something the person likes. The size of the pupil is easiest to determine in blue eyes. Therefore, Blue-eyed people are considered attractive because it is easiest to determine whether they are interested or not.
Personally? It's evolution, and in today's world of hairdye, lipsuction, breast implants, and color contacts, none of it is true any longer. Beauty exists in all forms. And altough the media may not have started these trends, it certainly encourages them.
With Class Night, a graduation party, just around the corner, girls are continuously raising the bar. Manicures, pedicures, hairstyles, hair dye, shaving, plucking, the whole nine yards. What is it that drives us to fight for the perfect Barbie body? Everyday, we're surrounded by the images of “perfect bodies” displayed by the media, but strangely, that's not it. No, even in 15th- and 16th- century Italy, women were dying their hair blond. Studies have shown that even in Iran, where the voice of the media is limited, women are actually more concerned with their body image and want to lose more weight then women in America. Incredibly enough, there's logic behind the blond bombshell.
Age- This one's easy. Men tend to be attracted to younger women because younger women are usually healthier.
Hair- Once again, it's about health and youth. Blonde hair indicates youth. Shiny and lustrous hair indicates health, and therefore, longer hair indicates many years of health.
Waist- Women with a low waist-to-hip ratio are more fertile than other women. They have an easier time conceiving a child and do so at earlier ages because they have larger amounts of reproductive hormones.
Breasts- Until recently, "bigger is better" didn't make any sense, seeing as size doesnt interfere with a womans ablility to lactate, but anthropologist Frank Marlowe suggests that because of larger breasts sagging with age, it's easier to judge age with large breasts.
Eyes- The pupil dilates when exposed to something the person likes. The size of the pupil is easiest to determine in blue eyes. Therefore, Blue-eyed people are considered attractive because it is easiest to determine whether they are interested or not.
Personally? It's evolution, and in today's world of hairdye, lipsuction, breast implants, and color contacts, none of it is true any longer. Beauty exists in all forms. And altough the media may not have started these trends, it certainly encourages them.
- 42% of 6-8 year old girls want to be thinner.
- 81% of kids 10 years old are afraid of being fat.
- 51% of girls 9-10 feel better when they are on diets.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Bitterest Tears
Here is the test to find whether your mission on earth is finished: If you're alive, it isn't.
-Richard Bach
Harriet Beecher Stowe, a great American author, once said that the bitterest tears shed over graves are those for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. I'm not sure I agree. I think the bitterest tears are those shed for lost time. For those who leave too soon, when we only want one more day. Just one more laugh together. One more hug. One last goodbye.
Why is it that we are drawn to death? My best friend's father, who might as well have been part of my family, passed away, and his funeral was today. We are drawn to death the same reason we are drawn to birth. It is because deep down, the human spirit knows that Death and Birth are part of the same whole. Everything intersects. Every story overlaps.
The oldest daughter spoke first. She started almost jokingly, recalling her happy childhood. She addressed the rest of the family, her mother, siblings, and her young son. She described how much he had loved them all. Suddenly she fell against the podium crying, "Daddy! Daddy I love you!"
I lost it, and tears poured from my face, my already soaking tissue providing no help. My friend next to me slipped her hand into mine, and I squeezed it and bit my lip, afraid to let go. I was astonished by the raw emotion in the room. Puffy eyes from crying, clinging to each other, and breaking sad smiles when funny memories were recalled. I learned something as well. No matter how heavy two hearts are with sorrow, together, the sadness is lessened.
I will always remember him. He was a boisterous, happy person, who thoroughly enjoyed life. I remember his laughter, and his joking sing-song voice when coaxing a smile from his children. I will remember his encouragement, the first person not to criticize my loud voice, but to compliment it. I will remember love. May he forever rest in peace.
-Richard Bach
Harriet Beecher Stowe, a great American author, once said that the bitterest tears shed over graves are those for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. I'm not sure I agree. I think the bitterest tears are those shed for lost time. For those who leave too soon, when we only want one more day. Just one more laugh together. One more hug. One last goodbye.
Why is it that we are drawn to death? My best friend's father, who might as well have been part of my family, passed away, and his funeral was today. We are drawn to death the same reason we are drawn to birth. It is because deep down, the human spirit knows that Death and Birth are part of the same whole. Everything intersects. Every story overlaps.
The oldest daughter spoke first. She started almost jokingly, recalling her happy childhood. She addressed the rest of the family, her mother, siblings, and her young son. She described how much he had loved them all. Suddenly she fell against the podium crying, "Daddy! Daddy I love you!"
I lost it, and tears poured from my face, my already soaking tissue providing no help. My friend next to me slipped her hand into mine, and I squeezed it and bit my lip, afraid to let go. I was astonished by the raw emotion in the room. Puffy eyes from crying, clinging to each other, and breaking sad smiles when funny memories were recalled. I learned something as well. No matter how heavy two hearts are with sorrow, together, the sadness is lessened.
I will always remember him. He was a boisterous, happy person, who thoroughly enjoyed life. I remember his laughter, and his joking sing-song voice when coaxing a smile from his children. I will remember his encouragement, the first person not to criticize my loud voice, but to compliment it. I will remember love. May he forever rest in peace.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Poetry
“With me, poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.- Edgar Allen Poe
Today, I was asked what a poem is. I began to reply, "Why, that's easy! A poem is..." I found I couldn't finish my sentence. A poem. What is it? Its technical definition gives it no justice. "A piece of literature written in meter; verse." It's so much more. It's passion on paper, captured music, a prayer, a wish.
I have come to define poetry as purified language. Each word is carefully selected to have perfect rhythm, rhyme, alliteration, and purpose. The English language has hundreds of thousands of words, yet an average educated person only knows about 20,000 words and uses only about 2,000 words in a week. So much expression is left untouched. In Shakespeare's work, the longest word he used was "honorificabilitudinitatibus", which is defined as "the state of being able to achieve honours". I often feel that we are evolving backwards, resorting to primordial grunts.
Poetry touches the harmony inside all of us, and captures beautiful slivers of language and thought. It is the hole in ignorance, allowing knowledge and beauty to flow freely. In today's world, there are few people who can recite famous poetry. Read! Expand! Truly, what did the Robert Frost's woods represent? What did Edgar Allen Poe's raven mean? Secrets remain locked in the beauty of forgotten words! I leave you with one of my favorite poems, written by Langston Hughes.
Dreams
Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams,
For when dreams go,
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
Today, I was asked what a poem is. I began to reply, "Why, that's easy! A poem is..." I found I couldn't finish my sentence. A poem. What is it? Its technical definition gives it no justice. "A piece of literature written in meter; verse." It's so much more. It's passion on paper, captured music, a prayer, a wish.
I have come to define poetry as purified language. Each word is carefully selected to have perfect rhythm, rhyme, alliteration, and purpose. The English language has hundreds of thousands of words, yet an average educated person only knows about 20,000 words and uses only about 2,000 words in a week. So much expression is left untouched. In Shakespeare's work, the longest word he used was "honorificabilitudinitatibus", which is defined as "the state of being able to achieve honours". I often feel that we are evolving backwards, resorting to primordial grunts.
Poetry touches the harmony inside all of us, and captures beautiful slivers of language and thought. It is the hole in ignorance, allowing knowledge and beauty to flow freely. In today's world, there are few people who can recite famous poetry. Read! Expand! Truly, what did the Robert Frost's woods represent? What did Edgar Allen Poe's raven mean? Secrets remain locked in the beauty of forgotten words! I leave you with one of my favorite poems, written by Langston Hughes.
Dreams
Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams,
For when dreams go,
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
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